by Emile Zola
‘Come on,’ she cried, laughing. ‘Have you had enough? You’ll get tired first, my dear.’
These, however, were her last words. Maddened, purple-faced, frightening, Rougon charged at her, panting like a runaway bull. She, with a cruel gleam in her eyes, was happy enough to carry on hitting him. Now she too was out of breath, no longer able to speak. Stepping away from the wall, she moved majestically into the middle of the stable and, whirling round and round, began to hit him repeatedly, just keeping her distance, lashing him on his legs, arms, body, shoulders, while he danced about, a huge, ungainly figure, like an animal under the trainer’s whip. She brought her blows down on him, as if she had grown taller, her cheeks pale, a nervous smile on her lips. And yet, without her noticing, he was slowly forcing her backwards, to an open door that led into another section of the stables which was used as a storeroom for straw and hay. Then, as she was trying to keep her crop out of his reach, despite her blows he grabbed her thighs and tipped her through the door on to the straw, with such force that he fell down beside her. She did not utter a sound, but with all her strength lashed him across the face, from ear to ear.
‘You bitch!’ he shouted, coughing and choking and swearing. Furious, he said he knew very well she had slept with everybody, with the coachman and the banker and Pozzo, so why, he wanted to know, why not with him too?
She did not deign to reply. She had got to her feet, and now stood facing him, as white as a sheet, but haughty and impassive as a statue.
‘Why not?’ he asked again. ‘You let me hold your bare arms… Just tell me why not.’
She remained serious, ignoring his insults, a distant look in her eyes.
‘Because I won’t,’ she said at last.
She gazed at him. There was a silence. Then she said:
‘Marry me… Then you can have anything you want.’
He gave a forced laugh, which sounded silly and rather offensive, and shook his head.
‘Then it’s never!’ she cried. ‘Understand? Never!’
Not saying another word, they went back into the stable. The horses, breathing harder, made uneasy by the sound of struggling behind them, turned round. The sun had just struck full on the skylights, and two dazzling yellow shafts of light shone down into the stable; the stone was steaming where the rays struck the floor, and the smell was even stronger now. Quite composed, Clorinde suddenly tucked her crop under her arm and slipped past Monarch again into his stall. Planting a couple of kisses on the horse’s nostrils, she said:
‘Goodbye, you lovely beast. You’re well behaved, you are.’
Though exhausted and shamefaced, Rougon had calmed down. The final lash with the riding crop seemed to have quelled his desire. With fingers that were still shaking, he reknotted his tie and felt his jacket to make sure it was properly buttoned. Then he surprised himself by proceeding, painstakingly, to remove pieces of straw from Clorinde’s riding habit. Fear of being found in there with her made him listen for any sound outside. Meanwhile, as if nothing unusual had happened between them, Clorinde let him walk round her to inspect her skirt, without seeming in the least concerned. When she asked him to open the door, he did so.
In the garden, they walked slowly. Rougon held a handkerchief to his left cheek, which was smarting. But when they reached the entrance to the study, Clorinde glanced immediately at the clock.
‘That makes thirty-two tickets,’ she said with a smile.
When he swung round in surprise, she laughed, and went on:
‘Hurry up and get rid of me! The clock is ticking, the thirty-third minute has already begun… I’ll put the tickets on your desk.’
Without a moment’s hesitation, he gave her three hundred and twenty francs. His fingers were shaking a little as he counted the gold pieces. He was punishing himself. And to show her delight at how easily he paid out so lightly such a large sum, she went up to him in a charmingly casual way and offered him her cheek. When he had planted a fatherly kiss on it, she took her leave. She was overjoyed.
‘Thank you on behalf of the orphans,’ she said. ‘That leaves only seven tickets to sell. Godfather will take those.’
When Rougon was alone again, he sat down mechanically at his desk and resumed his work. He wrote for several minutes, studying carefully the papers spread out before him. Then, still holding his pen, he stared pensively out into the garden, through the open window, but saw nothing. All that appeared before him was the slender figure of Clorinde, swaying, coiling and uncoiling with all the sensual grace of a bluish snake. This vision expanded and floated into the study. When she reached the centre of the room, she reared up on the tail of her habit, her thighs quivering, her arms reaching out, slithering forward till her fingers touched him. Little by little, certain parts of her person invaded the whole room, spreading everywhere, over the floor and the furniture, over the curtains, silently but passionately, exuding a powerful odour.
Rougon threw down his pen and left the study, cracking his finger-joints as he went. Was she going to prevent him from working now? Was he going out of his mind, seeing things that didn’t exist, he who was so level-headed? He remembered a woman he had lived with long ago, when he was a student. He had been able to write all night without even hearing her breathe. He raised the blind, opened the window wide, then threw open a door at the other end of the room, to let in some air, as if he was suffocating. With the irritated gesture he might have used to chase away a wasp, he began to wave his handkerchief about in an attempt to rid the room of Clorinde’s odour. When at last he could no longer smell her, he heaved a loud sigh, then wiped his face with the handkerchief to relieve the burning sensation she had left there.
But he was still unable to finish the page he had begun. He paced slowly up and down. He glanced at himself in the mirror, and saw the red weal on his left cheek. He stepped over to the mirror to examine it. The whip had only slightly broken the skin. That could be explained away as an accident. But though the skin itself scarcely showed a faint red line, once again, deep in his flesh, he felt the burning sensation made by the lash. Hurrying to a toilet cabinet behind a curtain, he dipped his head in a bowl of water, and that soothed him greatly. He was afraid that the lash he had received from Clorinde might make him want her even more. He was afraid to think about her again until the little graze on his cheek was fully healed. The burning sensation spread over his whole body.
‘No, I won’t!’ he said to himself out loud, as he went back into the study.
He sat down on the sofa, his fists clenched. A servant came in to tell him that lunch was getting cold, but this did not distract him from his thoughts as he wrestled with his body. His coarse features were swollen with the effort. His bull neck was bursting, the muscles tense, as if he was silently choking to death some beast that was gnawing away inside him. The struggle lasted for at least ten minutes. He could not remember ever having had to fight so hard. He emerged from the struggle very pale, the back of his neck covered in sweat.
For two days, Rougon would see nobody. He was deep, he said, in some very important work. One night he did not go to bed at all. On three occasions, his servant found him prostrate on the sofa, as if stupefied, with a frightening expression on his face. On the evening of the second day, he dressed to go and see Delestang, with whom he was to have dinner. But instead of crossing the Champs-Élysées to Delestang’s house, he turned up the Avenue, to the Balbis’. It was still only six o’clock.
‘Mademoiselle is not at home,’ said the little maid, Antonia, meeting him on the stairs with her nanny-goat grin.
He raised his voice, to make himself heard, and was just wondering whether he should withdraw when Clorinde appeared at the top of the stairs, leaning over the banister.
‘Do come up!’ she cried. ‘How stupid that girl is! She never understands what we tell her.’
She showed him into a little room on the first floor, next to her bedroom. It was a dressing room, with wallpaper patterned with soft blue foliage. Again
st the wall was a huge mahogany desk from which the varnish had faded, and there was also a leather armchair and some cardboard box files. Piles of papers thick with dust were lying about. It might have been the room of some shady lawyer. She had to fetch another chair from her bedroom.
‘I’ve been expecting you,’ she cried as she was getting it.
When she had brought it in, she explained that she was busy with her correspondence, and on the desk she showed him large sheets of buff paper covered with big, round handwriting. Then, as Rougon sat down, she noticed he was wearing tails.
‘Have you come to propose to me?’ she asked gaily.
‘Indeed so!’ he said, then added with a smile: ‘But not on my own behalf — on behalf of one of my friends.’
She looked at him, not sure whether he was joking or not. She was unkempt, and was wearing a red, loosely fastened housecoat, but in spite of this she looked lovely, with that striking beauty of hers as of an ancient statue that had found its way into a junk shop. Then, sucking at a finger on which she had just made a blot, she peered at the slight scar that was still visible on Rougon’s left cheek. At last, with a distracted air, she murmured:
‘Yes, I was sure you would come. But I expected you sooner.’
Then she seemed to remember what he had just said, and resumed their conversation.
‘So you’ve come on behalf of a friend, have you? Your best friend, no doubt?’
Her lovely laughter rang out. She was now sure that Rougon was talking about himself. She felt an urge to touch the scar on his cheek, to be completely sure that she had marked him, and that now he was hers. But Rougon took her by the wrists and gently guided her into the armchair.
‘Let’s have a frank talk,’ he said. ‘You and I are good friends, aren’t we? Isn’t that so?… Well, I’ve been thinking things over since the day before yesterday. And all the time, I was imagining you… Picturing you and me married, three months after the wedding… And I wonder if you know what I saw us both doing?’
She made no reply. Though normally so self-possessed, she was now rather embarrassed.
‘I saw you by the fire. You were holding the shovel, I had grabbed the tongs, and we were hitting each other.’
She found this so funny that she leaned back in her chair and burst into uncontrollable laughter.
‘No, don’t laugh,’ he went on. ‘I’m deadly serious. It wouldn’t be worth being together, just to beat each other to death. I’m quite sure that is what it would come to. Blows, then separation… Mark this: one should never try to join together two strong-willed people.’
‘So?’ she asked, having become very serious.
‘So I think it would be wise for us to shake hands and agree to be just good friends.’
Speechless, she just stared at him, darkly, her goddess-like forehead creased by a deep furrow. Her lips trembled slightly.
‘Will you excuse me?’ she said.
Drawing the armchair up to the desk, she began to fold her letters. As in government offices, she used large grey envelopes, which she sealed with wax. She had lit a candle, and now watched the wax flaring. Rougon calmly waited for her to finish.
‘And you came here to tell me that?’ she resumed at last, still sealing her letters.
Now it was his turn not to answer. He wanted to see her face clearly. When at last she decided to turn her chair back towards him, he smiled and tried to look her in the eye. Then, as if anxious to disarm her, he kissed her hand. She maintained the same cold, haughty attitude.
‘You know very well’, he said, ‘that I’m here to ask your hand for one of my friends.’
He spoke at great length. He was fonder of her than she realized. He liked her most of all for her intelligence and strength of character. It was very hard for him to give her up, but he was sacrificing his heart for the sake of their happiness. He wanted her to be like a queen in her own home. He saw her married to a very rich man with whom she could do what she liked; she would be in control, with no need to compromise in any way. Was that not better than their paralysing each other? They were people who could speak frankly to one another. He ended by calling her his ‘child’. She was his wilful child, a person whose interest in intrigue delighted him. He would have been very distressed to see her fail to make a success of life.
‘Have you finished?’ she asked, when at last he fell silent.
She had heard him out with the keenest attention, and now, looking up, straight at him, she replied:
‘If you’re finding me a husband so you can have me, I warn you you’re making a mistake… I said never!’
‘What an idea!’ he cried, colouring slightly.
Clearing his throat, he picked up a paperknife from the desk and began to examine the handle, so she would not see how uncomfortable he was. But she was not concerned with what he was feeling. She was thinking.
‘And who is the husband?’ she said softly.
‘Guess!’
Tapping her fingers on the desk, she shrugged and gave a weak smile. She knew very well who it was.
‘He’s such an idiot!’ she said under her breath.
Rougon defended Delestang. He was a very decent fellow, he said, and she could make whatever she wanted of him. He gave her details of Delestang’s health, his wealth, his habits. What was more, he promised to back them, both her and him, with all his influence, if he ever returned to power. Delestang might not have a great intellect; but he could fit in anywhere.
‘Oh, he’s not that bad, I admit,’ she laughed.
Then, after a fresh silence, she said:
‘Well! I’m not saying no, you may have the right idea… I don’t mind Monsieur Delestang too much.’
As she said this, she watched him. More than once she had had the impression that he was jealous of Delestang. But he remained impassive. There was no doubt about it, his willpower had proved strong enough to kill his desire within two days. What was more, he seemed very pleased by her response to his suggestion. He began once more to outline the advantages of such a union, like a crafty lawyer talking about a particularly good investment. He had taken her hands in his and, with a conspiratorial air, was patting them affectionately.
‘It came to me during the night,’ he said. ‘I suddenly saw it all clearly: it would save us both! The last thing I want is to see you remain unmarried! You’re the only woman I know who really deserves a husband. Delestang is the answer. If you marry Delestang, we both keep our freedom.’
And he added brightly: ‘I’m sure you’ll reward me by letting me be part of your great exploits.’
‘Does Monsieur Delestang know what you’re planning?’ she asked.
For a moment he was taken aback, as if she had said something he would never have expected of her. Then, calmly, he replied:
‘No. There would be no point. He can be told later.’
She had begun sealing her letters again. She embossed the wax with a big seal without initials, then turned each envelope over and, in her large handwriting, slowly wrote the address. As she tossed the letters to her right, Rougon tried to make out to whom she was writing. Most of the letters were to well-known Italian politicians. She must have noticed his curiosity, for when she rose to put the mail out, ready to be posted, she remarked:
‘When Maman has one of her migraines, I have to do the correspondence.’
Left alone, Rougon walked round the little room. As in a business office, the box files had various labels: Receipts, Letters for filing, Files A. But he smiled when he saw, among the papers on the desk, a rather threadbare corset, some of its whalebone broken. There was also a cake of soap on the inkstand, and fragments of blue satin on the floor, remnants of some petticoat-mending operation which the maid had neglected to sweep up. The bedroom door was ajar and he was inquisitive enough to peer inside, but the blinds were drawn and it was so dark that all he could make out was the shadowy mass of the curtains round the bed. Clorinde came back in.
‘I’ll be going
now,’ he said. ‘I’m having dinner with our man. So you’ll let me deal with the matter?’
She did not reply. She had come back looking downcast, as if she had changed her mind on the stairs. His hand was already on the banister, but she drew him back into the little room and closed the door. This meant the end of her great dream, of a hope so diligently nurtured that only an hour before she had thought its realization a certainty. Her cheeks were burning now from her feeling that she had been deeply insulted. She felt as if she had been slapped across the face.
‘So you’re serious?’ she asked, standing with her back to the light, so that he would not see how flushed her cheeks were.
And when, for the third time, he rehearsed his arguments, she still said nothing, afraid that, if she tried to argue with him, she would be overcome by the anger she could feel welling up inside her. She was afraid she might hit him. Seeing the life she had planned for herself collapsing, she lost all sense of reality and, retreating to her bedroom door, was about to draw Rougon in, crying, ‘Have me, I trust you, afterwards I will be your wife only if that is what you want!’ But Rougon, still talking, suddenly understood. He fell silent and became very pale. They looked into each other’s eyes, and for a few moments they both trembled slightly, uncertain what to do. Yes, there it was, the bed he had just seen, behind the curtains. But she was already calculating the consequences of such generosity. Neither of them hesitated longer than a minute.
‘You really want this marriage?’ she asked slowly.
Without hesitation, speaking very firmly, he said:
‘I do.’
‘Then go ahead!’
Slowly, both turned to the door and emerged on to the landing, seeming quite calm. On Rougon’s temples, however, were a few large beads of sweat which this latest victory had cost him. Clorinde drew herself erect, sure now of her own strength. For a moment, they stood facing each other, without a word. There was nothing more to be said, and yet they could not part. When at last he turned to go, holding her hand in his, she gave him a squeeze, then, without a trace of anger, said:
